


And Frosts are Slain and Flowers Begotten

by Cinaed



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Time, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 21:58:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One bleak winter's night at the convent M. Madeleine invites Fauchelevent to share his bed to stave off the cold. The night does not progress as he might have thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Frosts are Slain and Flowers Begotten

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kink meme prompt "Fauchelevent and Valjean live in that hut together for a few years-- there _must_ have been (or should have been) bed-sharing and piling up their blankets together during particularly cold winter nights!" 
> 
> Thanks go out to those cheering me on and laughing at my pain as I tried to find historically-accurate sex words that weren't disgusting. 
> 
> The title comes from Algernon Charles Swinburne’s “Atalanta in Calydon.”

Snow had begun to fall early that morning. At first it had only been a few stray flakes settling upon Madeleine’s hair, white lost upon white, the sky mostly clear of clouds. Then, as the day had continued, more clouds had gathered above the convent and cast down a fierce, unrelenting procession of flurries until at last the snow lay thick upon the ground and reached halfway to Fauchelevent’s knees.

When it had become clear that the snow would keep falling, Fauchelevent had trudged, despite Madeleine’s mild but pointed remark that he could see to the task just as surely as Fauchelevent could, to the melon bed to check the strawmats and replace a few that seemed worn. He had wrapped the melons securely in their greatcoats and clucked a reproof at the sky when a sudden gust of wind had thrown snow into his face, half-blinding him.

It had been a relief to return to the hut and warm his chilled feet and hands before the fireplace. Now, with the evening meal finished and the candles sputtering a signal that it was time to sleep, the howl of the winter wind had grown so loud and fierce that it seemed almost a miracle that the hut did not fall down around his and Madeleine’s ears.

After one particularly loud roar of the wind that rattled the lone window of the hut, Fauchelevent drew his summer-coat more firmly around his shoulders. The summer-coat was thinner than his greatcoat, but it had the benefit of being dry. “If the roof comes down, Father Madeleine, it will be a sorry thing!” he remarked, repressing a shiver. “Who would rescue us then?”

This was said not at all in earnest, for while the hut was rather ramshackle, it had held up well over the years and through far worse storms; Fauchelevent did not doubt it could withstand this one as well. He looked towards the ceiling, considering the sisters who lived in the convent, and added thoughtfully, “Perhaps Sister Belina might have the strength, for I have seen how easily she opens the heavy doors of the convent, but I do not think she would venture into this storm to save us.” 

“Well,” Madeleine said calmly as he set aside the book he had been reading, “we shall have to trust God that the roof holds. Or, should the roof collapse, that you have misjudged Sister Belina and she will prove our savior.” When he turned back towards Fauchelevent, there was a small smile upon his face, the subtle curve of his mouth all but hidden from view, and Fauchelevent grinned back, pleased that Madeleine had joined in the jest.

Madeleine’s smiles were more common of late, though still infrequent and all the more precious for their rarity. They warmed Fauchelevent in a way that the fireplace did not, for all that Madeleine smiled most often during those precious hours in which Cosette was allowed to visit, her bright, cheerful voice recounting all she had learned that day or repeating a joke that one of the other girls had told her.

The slightly upward turn of Madeleine’s lips seemed to drive some of the chill from Fauchelevent’s bones, which had settled there as he’d crouched among his melons and had not yet been driven away by the fireplace or the glass of wine now warming his belly.

The moment passed; he rose to his feet with a wince and a creaking protest from his bad knee. He took up the warming pans and hobbled closer to the fireplace, saying to Madeleine, “I think I will try to sleep.” The wind chose that moment to howl the loudest it had all day, as though in protest. Another faint smile crossed Madeleine’s face as Fauchelevent looked again to the ceiling and retorted, “I did say _try_.”

Together, they filled up both pans with coals. Fauchelevent could not quite keep from feeling a quiet satisfaction as he watched the quick, certain movements of Madeleine’s hands. Before Madeleine had descended upon the convent like an angel fallen from Heaven, Fauchelevent had made due in the winter with a wrapped-up brick to keep his feet from freezing. It had taken only a few weeks after his arrival for Madeleine to catch Fauchelevent wrapping a heated brick and to press money upon him with the suggestion to purchase a warming pan.

It had almost been an argument, Fauchelevent reflected as he bid Madeleine goodnight and limped into his room, holding the warming pan’s handle carefully. He had refused to have a warming pan for his bed while M. Madeleine went without, while Madeleine had thought it a waste of coin and argued that he was not troubled by the cold. But in the end Fauchelevent had had his victory, small though it was, and he had purchased two warming pans instead of one.   

Fauchelevent undressed swiftly, changing into a long shirt as quickly as his stiff fingers would allow. Once the pan had been placed at the foot of the bed and beneath the covers, Fauchelevent burrowed under the blankets. Even as the pan warmed his feet, another shiver racked his frame, his teeth chattering so fiercely that his jaw ached.

Huddled beneath the covers, he vowed to look to his pocket-money in the morning, for in truth he rarely used it now that Madeleine paid for his snuff. He still had much of the thousand francs Madeleine had given him those years ago, finding little to spend it upon once in the convent; he could buy another blanket, or two, or three. Even as he contemplated the purchase, the wind paused in its moaning, and Fauchelevent could make out the faint sounds of Madeleine moving about in the next room. Closing his eyes, Fauchelevent pictured Madeleine, the way the candlelight would play across the grave lines of Madeleine’s face until he blew out the candles and made his own way to bed.

Fauchelevent shivered again, found himself wondering if Madeleine worried for Cosette, for in truth neither he nor Fauchelevent had been allowed near the girls’ dormitory and had only Cosette’s word that she was not cold during nights such as these. The wind groaned, and more goosebumps rose on the back of his neck. He prayed that the dormitory was warm. Perhaps instead he should purchase another blanket for her, he thought, thinking of how pink her cheeks and nose had been as she’d come in from the snow and the way her teeth had chattered as she’d curled into the warmth of Madeleine’s side and told him how she and the other girls had made snow angels before one of the nuns had scolded them. Cosette was a healthy girl now that she had put some weight on and looked less of a starved waif, but there was no need to tempt fate. Another blanket would do her no harm.

Remembering how Cosette had shivered seemed to make the room all the colder; the fireplace seemed like a distant memory even with the pan heating his feet. Fauchelevent’s knees knocked together so loudly that it was a wonder Madeleine did not hear and come to see what was making such a racket. He burrowed deeper under the covers, clenching his teeth as another shudder passed through him.

But it seemed that the knocking of his knees _had_ summoned Madeleine, for in what seemed the next instant the door opened and Madeleine’s familiar form stood in the doorway. His face was cast in shadow, for the moonlight came faintly through the window behind him. Fauchelevent could not see his expression as Madeleine said, voice quiet, “It is a cold night.”

There was a pause, as though Madeleine expected a response. “Yes,” Fauchelevent said at last. He repressed another shiver, drew his blankets closer. “I was thinking, if the snow is not too thick, tomorrow I might go and purchase another blanket for Cosette.”  

“That is a good thought,” Madeleine said, and Fauchelevent warmed himself a little at Madeleine’s pleased tone and the smile he could hear in his voice. “I will give you some money in the morning--”

Fauchelevent would have waved his hand dismissively if that had not meant emerging even briefly from beneath the blankets. Instead he made a scolding sound with his tongue and frowned in Madeleine’s direction. “As though I do not have money of my own to spend!” he said. “Keep your coin. We w-will use it to buy s-something else for h-her.” This final remark was half-lost amid a shivering fit.

There was a moment of silence, in which Fauchelevent moved his feet closer to the warming pan, and then Madeleine said again, “It is a cold night.” Fauchelevent opened his mouth to tell him that he was repeating himself, but the words stilled on his tongue as Madeleine continued, sounding almost diffident. “Even my blankets do not seem to keep out the cold. I had thought the night might be warmer if we shared a bed.”

At first Fauchelevent could not answer him, for surprise had driven all thought from his mind. Then he almost laughed at his own astonishment and began the awkward struggle to untangle himself from the cocoon he had made of his blankets. “Shall I bring my warming pan, or will two be too much for one bed?”

“Bring it, though we will probably only use the one,” Madeleine said after a moment.

They piled the blankets upon Madeleine’s bed until the covers took on an awkward shape, looking almost like a mountain. It was ridiculous enough that Fauchelevent had to fight back laughter, and though it was too dark to see, he thought Madeleine might be amused as well. He crawled underneath the covers, ignoring the painful twinge in his bad knee, and stretched out on his side.

A moment later, the bed creaked and dipped as Madeleine settled in behind him. Their bodies did not quite touch, a small space still between them, but nevertheless Fauchelevent could feel heat coming off Madeleine, his even breaths warm against the back of Fauchelevent’s neck.

For the first time since he had trudged through the snow to the melon bed, Fauchelevent felt completely warm, the last of the winter chill easing from his bones. He closed his eyes; his thoughts slowed, turned nostalgic. He remembered, distantly, winter nights as a child, Ultime wrestling with him for the pillow or the blanket, though Fauchelevent could no longer quite recall his brother’s face, not the shape of Ultime’s nose nor the exact color of his eyes.

“Ultime and I, we shared a bed when we were children,” he said into the darkness. Madeleine’s breathing did not change, but Fauchelevent knew he was listening. “It was terrible during the summer-- we would fight, you see, over who had the bed and who would sleep on the floor, for it was too hot to share. I suppose since I was older I should have given him the bed, but I did not think that then. He blackened my eye once, I remember. Ah, we were cruel to each other! But during the winter, when we were too poor even for a brick to warm our feet, then, then it was good. Perhaps you do not know what I am talking about, I do not know if you had brothers or sisters, but it was….” He paused, searching for the right words.

Madeleine drew in a breath, as though to speak, and so Fauchelevent gave up his hunt for a proper end to his sentence. Rather than Madeleine’s low voice, however, silence filled the air. It was an uncomfortable silence, tense in a way the silences had been those first few weeks as they had learned to live together.

Fauchelevent swore in the privacy of his mind at his own foolishness. He knew Madeleine did not discuss his past. What madness had made him speak of Madeleine’s childhood even in passing? “But enough,” he said with a shake of his head that pressed his cheek deeper into the pillow. His next words were muffled. “We were going to sleep. You do not wish to hear about my childhood.”

“I do not mind,” Madeleine said slowly. Then, “It is only that you do not speak of your brother often.”

Fauchelevent would have shrugged if he’d thought the heavy weight of the blankets against his shoulders would allow it. “Ah well, there is not much more to tell. I left to become a notary, he stayed at the farm, we wrote the letters from time to time, and then, was it ten years ago or fifteen, word reached me that he was dead. I remember-- ah!” He shifted, and pain shot up his leg. His knee throbbed, a sharp, sudden discomfort that made him hiss out a surprised protest. He held his breath and kept very still, waiting for the pain to ease.

Madeleine said something, though it was lost amid the queer buzzing in Fauchelevent’s ears.

Then there was the press of a gentle hand upon Fauchelevent’s leg, fingers half-curled around the innermost part of his thigh before the fingers twitched wildly against the fabric of Fauchelevent’s shirt and stilled. Before Fauchelevent could react, Madeleine’s hand lifted away from his leg and Madeleine said with a flustered edge to his voice, “I am sorry, I thought to-- I meant to see if your knee was swollen.”

“It is all right,” Fauchelevent said through dry lips. As Madeleine had stammered out his apologetic explanation, another emotion had taken the place of Fauchelevent’s initial surprise. He refused to put a name to that emotion, for it did him no credit. Of course the gesture had been an accident; Madeleine was a good man, a living, breathing saint, and surely saints would not touch another man so on purpose. Fauchelevent cleared his throat. “My knee--”

He stopped as Madeleine’s fingertips brushed his leg again, this time tentatively touching his bare knee, thumb stroking slowly where the skin stretched thinnest. Fauchelevent’s breath caught queerly in his throat. He was grateful for the dark, which hid the flush he knew must be coloring his face.

“It does not feel swollen,” Madeleine said into his ear, voice pensive and warm with concern. “Perhaps it is only stiff from the cold.” His thumb swept slowly over Fauchelevent’s knee, replacing some of the discomfort with small sparks of pleasure.

Fauchelevent did not trust his voice, for his body had turned traitor, desire pooling low in his stomach, his prick hardening between his thighs as though he was a young man rather than someone too old for such things. He nodded in agreement instead, hoping Madeleine would catch the movement.

Madeleine’s thumb pressed down more firmly and sent another wave of pleasure up Fauchelevent’s leg. “I hope you did not strain it walking through the snow,” Madeleine half-scolded, probing again at Fauchelevent’s knee.

Fauchelevent caught his lower lip between his teeth, swallowed back sounds that would have repelled Madeleine. His hands were tucked under his arms; he clenched his hands into fists, but even his nails digging into his palms could not distract from how his prick twitched against his thighs with every innocent touch of Madeleine’s fingers.

“There is still some liniment in the cupboard,” Madeleine suggested.

Fauchelevent tried to think clearly, but it was difficult to be rational with his prick a heavy weight between his legs and Madeleine’s warm hand still cupping his knee, all past discomfort supplanted by desire that made his heart pound unsteadily in his ears. If Madeleine fetched the liniment, it would give Fauchelevent a moment to breathe and perhaps gain some control over himself. But the wind was still howling angrily outside, the rest of the hut doubtlessly freezing cold, and Fauchelevent quailed at the idea of dislodging Madeleine from the warmth of the blankets.

“Fauchelevent.” There was a frown in Madeleine’s voice now. “Should I fetch the liniment?” His hand did not leave Fauchelevent’s knee, his fingers still resting lightly there, but the bed shifted as though Madeleine had begun the process of sitting upright.

“No!” The protest escaped Fauchelevent’s lips before he could think better of it, and Madeleine went still. “No, there is no need,” he continued in a whisper, trying and failing to keep the rasp from his voice. He could only pray that Madeleine assumed the hoarseness came from speaking in a whisper and that he did not realize the true reason.

“If you are in pain, there _is_ a need,” Madeleine said. He made as though to sit up once more, the bed creaking loudly.

Fauchelevent fumbled beneath the blankets until his hand clutched Madeleine’s. “I tell you, I am in no pain,” he said quickly. “Please, just remain here. If you fetch the liniment in your bare feet, you will surely catch a cold, and then Cosette will scold us for being so careless with your health. Let us--” His voice faltered, unbidden images appearing in his mind as to what they could do instead. He wetted his lips with his tongue, almost pleaded, “Let us sleep.”

“I do not understand,” Madeleine said, bewilderment mingling with the concern in his voice. “You act as though I wish to go through the snow to the infirmary rather than simply to the cupboard. As for my feet, I can put on socks if it pleases you--” Madeleine’s hand, still trapped between Fauchelevent’s knee and hand, made an abrupt movement as though to pull away.

The sudden light scratch of Madeleine’s nails sent another spike of arousal through Fauchelevent; a moan escaped his throat-- too late, he turned his face to the pillow to muffle the sound.

There was a long moment of silence. Then, “Fauchelevent.” When Fauchelevent only squeezed his eyes shut and did not answer, Madeleine said again, quieter but with more force, “ _Fauchelevent_.”

He could not fathom Madeleine’s tone, and yet Madeleine had heard the moan and must have understood what it meant. He almost laughed, but swallowed the despairing sound. His face hot against the pillow, he said in a mumble, “Forgive me, I did not mean-- I will go back to my own bed, we will not speak of it--”

“Fauchelevent,” said Madeleine a third time, and still Fauchelevent could not make sense of his tone. He thought Madeleine sounded astonished, which was understandable, and yet not disgusted, which was impossible. Madeleine’s hand moved under Fauchelevent’s once more; this time Fauchelevent released him.

Madeleine’s hand rose from Fauchelevent’s knee and then, as Fauchelevent waited for him to pull away the blankets so that he could retreat to his own bedroom, he squeezed Fauchelevent’s elbow and then pulled away, the gesture so swift that Fauchelevent did not have time even to flinch. “Please, look at me.”

Fauchelevent did not argue that they were both all but blind without moonlight or candlelight. He obeyed, pushed awkwardly against the heavy blankets until he at last rolled onto his other side and faced Madeleine. He held himself stiffly like someone waiting for a blow, though he knew Madeleine would never strike him.  

Madeleine’s expression was lost in the darkness; Fauchelevent could only make out the shape of his head upon the pillow. Fauchelevent wished for light, if only so he could see Madeleine’s face and perhaps find the disgust there that was so well-hidden in his voice. “Fauchelevent,” said Madeleine, and now the name sounded strange on his tongue, as though he was saying the name for the first time. “I did not know...I did not think….” He trailed off into an unclear mumble.

“We do not have to speak about it,” Fauchelevent said. It was a struggle to keep his voice from trembling, from revealing too much of his embarrassment and how badly he wished to crawl into his own bed and put this entire night out of his thoughts. He shook his head a little. “I tell you, let me go to my own bed. You will sleep here, and we can forget an old man’s foolishness--”

His voice died in his throat at the press of Madeleine’s hand upon his hip, splayed there for a moment before it moved slowly down Fauchelevent’s leg. Madeleine stroked his thumb along the inside of Fauchelevent’s thigh, the touch almost cautious.

Fauchelevent’s prick, which had wilted somewhat at his humiliated misery, grew interested once more. His head spun, dizzy with disbelief; if he had not been already lying down, he would have fallen over. It did not seem possible and yet those were Madeleine’s nails tracing light circles upon his thigh and Madeleine’s voice saying, very soft, “And if I do not wish to forget?”  

‘Father Madeleine,’ he tried to say, to summon enough breath and sense to answer the question. All that escaped Fauchelevent’s lips was a half-swallowed moan as his prick rubbed against the fabric of Madeleine’s sleeve. Then Madeleine’s hand curled around Fauchelevent’s prick and everything in Fauchelevent’s mind was blotted out by pleasure. He forgot the last few minutes, forgot that he had ever been worried about Madeleine’s disgust.

Fauchelevent’s world narrowed down to this: the feel of Madeleine’s hand upon his prick; the warm, pleasing roughness of Madeleine’s callused palm; and the uncertain way Madeleine’s hand moved upon Fauchelevent’s prick as though he had forgotten how to touch someone like this, as though he’d never touched someone like this. Heat spread through Fauchelevent with each tentative stroke, arousal seeming to turn his blood to flame. He reached out blindly, clutched at Madeleine’s arms as he thrust into his grip.

Madeleine’s hand faltered, its slow, uncertain rhythm growing even shakier. He made a sound low in his throat that made Fauchelevent’s mouth go dry.

Fauchelevent fumbled in the small space between their bodies, his fingers clasping the hem of Madeleine’s shirt. He pushed it up towards Madeleine’s hips even as Madeleine’s shoulders tensed and his hand stilled entirely upon Fauchelevent’s prick.

When Madeleine inhaled sharply, as though to protest, Fauchelevent found himself saying, “Please, let me….” Something in his voice and the way the plea caught in his throat must have convinced Madeleine how much he wanted this, for Madeleine let his breath out again and relaxed slowly in Fauchelevent’s grasp.

Fauchelevent’s fingertips slid under Madeleine’s shirt, brushed the underside of Madeleine’s prick before he got the whole of his hand around it. Madeleine’s prick was warm and thick, the tip wet when Fauchelevent ran his thumb slowly over it, reassurance that Madeleine desired this as well.

Madeleine made another sound, almost like a sob. His hand fell away from Fauchelevent’s prick, but Fauchelevent did not mind at the moment, not when Madeleine said in a breathless, wondering tone, “ _Oh_ ,” and twitched all over.

Fauchelevent wished for light even as he thumbed the tip of Madeleine’s prick again and the bed rocked a little at Madeleine’s shuddering reaction. He wondered how Madeleine’s face would look now, flushed with desire, if there had been candlelight to see by. He stroked Madeleine’s prick, slowly at first as he learned the shape of it, and then faster when Madeleine arched into his grip and moaned.

With each stroke, Fauchelevent could feel tension gathering in Madeleine’s thighs, knew even before Madeleine gasped out, “I feel-- Fauchelevent--” that he was on the edge of spending. Fauchelevent stroked Madeleine’s prick again and was rewarded by the sudden press of Madeleine’s face against Fauchelevent’s neck, the muffled cry and then the warm stickiness of the seed as it coated Fauchelevent’s hand and wrist.

Madeleine breathed shallowly against Fauchelevent’s neck, each ragged gulp of air tickling the skin there. After a long moment in which Fauchelevent wiped his hand on one of the blankets, Madeleine raised his head, muttered with something almost like flustered laughter in his voice, “Oh, let me…” and clasped Fauchelevent’s prick once more. His hand shook a little as he stroked Fauchelevent again, a fluttering touch of his fingers that made Fauchelevent’s breath catch. “Like this?” Madeleine murmured even as he stroked harder and somewhat faster, his hand hot upon Fauchelevent’s prick.

His blood roared in his ears, or perhaps that was the wind still howling outside, Fauchelevent could not tell. He wetted his lips, tried to answer in words, to offer him some encouragement, and moaned instead, arching against Madeleine’s hand.

It seemed answer enough, for Madeleine kept up the movement until the ache between Fauchelevent’s legs was almost unbearable, until at last his pleasure crested over him like a wave that left him wrecked and boneless beneath the weight of the blankets. When he could think clearly again, he found he had pressed closer to Madeleine; his head now rested against Madeleine’s chest, his one arm thrown across Madeleine’s broad shoulders.

After a moment, Madeleine’s chin dipped to rest against the top of Fauchelevent’s head. Their knees knocked together as he shifted, but Fauchelevent’s knee did not pain him. Madeleine said nothing, but it was not, Fauchelevent thought, the uncomfortable silence of before.

For once Fauchelevent could not think of anything to say, and so he kept silent as well. Instead he listened to Madeleine’s breaths as they began to slow and even out. Surely Madeleine would speak in another minute, he thought, it was not as though he would fall asleep without attempting to discuss-- but it seemed he _would_ , for his shoulders relaxed beneath Fauchelevent’s arm.

“Madeleine?” he whispered, though very softly, for he did not wish to wake Madeleine if he was indeed asleep and did not know what he would say if Madeleine proved to still be awake. “Father Madeleine,” he whispered again. Still that steady breathing did not change.

Something like a laugh caught in his throat. When it escaped his lips, he found with vague surprise that it was not a laugh but a yawn, the ebbing pleasure replaced by drowsiness he did not bother to fight. “Goodnight,” he murmured into Madeleine’s shirt, closing his eyes. He felt himself yawn once more, and then his thoughts quieted and faded away.

 

* * *

 

Pain woke Fauchelevent the next morning. He grumbled into his pillow, wiggling his sore toes and then moving his foot a little and finding the hard metal of the now-cool warming pan, which he must have kicked in his sleep.

He was still muttering under his breath when he began an attempt to untangle himself from the cocoon he had made of the blankets. Something coated his hand, making it a trifle stiff and awkward to bend his fingers and hold a blanket's edge; it was the remains of Madeleine’s seed upon his hand and arm that he had not wiped away on the blankets, he realized, and then remembered the night before.

He opened his eyes, stared around him almost blindly until at last he realized Madeleine was not in bed. Straining his ears, he could hear the scrape of Madeleine’s boots upon the floor as he moved around the main room of the hut.

Fauchelevent managed to throw off the blankets at last. He scratched at the remains of Madeleine’s seed, which had begun to itch at discovery, and flushed a little when some of it would not come off his skin. He licked his lips, which were dry, and stared towards the doorway. He found that he still did not know what to say, though he was unworried about disapproval and ridicule. Madeleine was not a man to do one thing in the dark and then condemn it in the harsh light of day.

Still, Madeleine might regret it. When Fauchelevent thought of Madeleine avoiding his gaze and touch, the silences becoming constant and always awkward, the hut seemed suddenly too small, the walls of the room too close. There was no mud in the room, could not be for Fauchelevent had only tracked in snow from outside yesterday, and yet for a moment Fauchelevent smelled mud, thick and foul in his nose. He shook his head sharply and got to his feet. His thoughts would drive him mad if he let them and lingered too long in Madeleine's room.

His knee, when he tested it, was stiff but less so than before. It did not give under his weight, and slowly, smoothing the shirt down so that it fell to almost his knees and steadfastly ignoring the chill in the air, he shuffled into the main room.

Madeleine had his back to him, bent over the fireplace and already dressed in his workman’s clothes. When he turned and saw Fauchelevent, his tanned face flushed. “Good morning,” he said, only a little unsteadily. “I, ah, melted some snow so we could both wash,” he said, and then stopped, the blush deepening and spreading down his throat. He gestured towards a small basin that Fauchelevent had not noticed on the table.

“Ah,” said Fauchelevent, and half-hid his hand behind his back. He fought an answering warmth in his face, but suspected that he was blushing as well as he muttered, “Thank you,” and retreated into his bedroom with the basin to wash and change. 

Fauchelevent washed his hand and the places where his own seed stuck to him, grateful that the water was still somewhat warm. Then he changed, trying to tell himself that at least Madeleine had met his eyes and spoken to him. So what if Madeleine had not immediately asked him to sit down and talk of last night? If Madeleine wished to pretend it had not happened, well, Fauchelevent had kept such desires hidden before, he could do so again. Friendship, he had found, was a gift all its own.

When he came into the main room, Madeleine was readying two plates of food. Madeleine looked up with another faint, uncertain smile. “Breakfast is ready,” he said, turning towards the table.

“So I see! That is good. I am hungry,” Fauchelevent said before the silence could fall between them once more, though in truth he did not know if the flutter in his stomach was from hunger or nerves. He sat down in the nearest chair and stretched out his bad knee, rubbed at it absently.

Madeleine had started towards the table, but now he paused mid-step, his brow furrowed. “Is your knee still paining you?”  

“A little stiff, but better,” Fauchelevent admitted. He glanced sidelong at Madeleine as he added, “Perhaps I should use the liniment after all,” but Madeleine chose that moment to place one plate upon the table and Fauchelevent could not see his expression.

By the time Madeleine straightened, his face was set in almost stern lines. He moved around the table, placed the second plate in front of Fauchelevent. Then he paused, something flickering across his face that Fauchelevent could not name. Madeleine moved, suddenly, and Fauchelevent almost flinched in the instant before Madeleine’s lips pressed against his forehead. Madeleine unbent hastily, his face flushed red as he retreated to his chair.  

There was a steaming teapot between them on the table, and two empty cups. Fauchelevent ducked his head and poured himself a cup, feeling light with relief and a slowly dawning happiness sweeter even than the tea he sipped at-- this despite Madeleine’s apparent dumping of half their sugar supply into the teapot. His forehead still tingled where Madeleine had kissed him; he resisted the urge to run his fingers upon the spot and fiddled with his cup instead before he started in on his boiled egg.

They ate quietly, exchanging small smiles across the table instead of conversation. 

When Fauchelevent finished, he rose to his feet, moved slowly over to the window. More snow must have fallen during the night, for the snowdrifts seemed even higher this morning. He huffed out an exasperated breath. Then a thought struck him, and he smiled secretively even as Madeleine rose to his feet and began to walk across the room to join him. Still, he kept his voice exasperated as he flung his hand towards the sparkling white. “Look at that! I think the snow would reach my knees if I attempted to check on the melon bed this morning. I wonder, would the bell even ring upon my knee or would the sound be lost in the snow? Ah, it is all very pretty to look at, I am sure, but what a pity! I had hoped to go to market and purchase a blanket for Cosette, you remember, we discussed it, and I do not see how it is possible today.” He paused then, tilted his head as though suddenly struck by the thought that had occurred a moment earlier. “Still,” he said slowly, letting his grin now creep upon his face, “I suppose if we keep on sharing a bed, we will not need quite so many blankets. We can give her one of ours now, and when the snow has melted, I will get her a new one.”

Madeleine’s hand settled low against his back; he leaned into the touch. When he turned his head, there was the hoped-for smile gracing Madeleine's face and warming Fauchelevent in a way the fireplace or sunlight never could.

“That is a good thought,” said Madeleine, and bent his head once more to kiss him.


End file.
